We parked at the service route junction
just beyond midnight, headlights cut,
pretending we didn’t notice
the clock approaching curfew
on my last night in town.

Through the sunroof,
the stars looked like a dull reflection
of the tree-framed skyline.
We stared out in silence, our January breath
clouding the windshield.

You were the first to move:
your hand smacked the radio
to silence Third Eye Blind’s
“How’s It Going to Be,”
but it was too late.

The strumming autoharp and refrains of
“you don’t know me anymore”
had already filled the car with longing
for a love we hadn’t lost yet.